


Three men in a bed

by fennishjournal (Shimi)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Fluff, Gen, Hypothermia, Kinkmeme, Male Friendship, Pre-OT3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-06
Updated: 2012-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the kinkmeme prompt:<br/>S/J/L Blanket fic: I don't care if they're stuck somewhere cold and trying to stay warm or just want to snuggle, I just really want S/J/L snuggling up under the same blanket :3</p>
<p>Shameless friendship fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three men in a bed

The tiny old hut on the top of the mountain smells musty and stale when John pushes the door open but he doesn't particularly care because it is DRY and WARM and at some point in the last five hours he has given up hope that he will know what these two words mean, ever again.

Sherlock, predictably, scrunches up his face in displeasure when he steps inside, dripping from the hem of his coat, the ends of his hair that is plastered to his skull and, quite improbably, from his cheekbones. 

Lestrade, however, shares John's sense of priorities and points a warning finger at Sherlock when he opens his mouth.

“Oh no, you don't! You are the one who got us into this mess, you do NOT get to complain about our emergency shelter!”

Sherlock gives an injured sniff, his eyes wide and innocent.

“It is hardly my fault that we got lost!”

“You were the one insisting that we hike using a map from the 1930s! In a thunderstorm!”

John isn't looking because he has moved on to trying to light a fire in the old potbellied stove in the corner, but even so he knows that Lestrade has thrown up his hands in exasperation while Sherlock is glaring at him as if he is being dense on purpose. And sure enough, here it comes in Sherlock's best talking-to-idiots-voice:

“If we want to have any chance at reconstructing what Elmar Topps could possibly have observed that day it is imperative that we reconstruct the original circumstances as closely as possible!”

“And the original circumstances included getting lost in the woods, falling into a mud hole and then getting bruised by fist-sized pieces of hail?!”

John winces. Lestrade sounds like he is at the end of his rope and he really can't blame the man. John has been manfully fighting the urge to shove Sherlock off the nearest crag for the last two hours and only the fact that, in this case, he can probably count on the help of one of Scotland Yard's finest to cover up the murder has actually stopped him. There is just something wrong about murdering someone and then getting away with it. Luckily he is spared the 30st reiteration of the whose fault-is-it-that-we-ended-up-here-oh-right-Sherlock-argument by the fact that the old wood and crackling newspaper pages have finally caught fire. John give a relieved sigh and sits back on his haunches in front of the blaze holding out his hands for warmth.

“Hey guys,” he calls over his shoulder, getting up and unbuttoning his soaked jacket, “there's a fire. Time to get out of these clothes.”

There is a moment of silence behind him and then Sherlock and Lestrade both jostle him in an effort to get closer to the flames.

“Bloody hell!” Lestrade exclaims, impressed, “I've never been more glad that they teach you survival skills in the army!” and John feels a little gratified even though he has absolutely no intention to tell Lestrade that his skills were acquired during his short stint in the boy-scouts when he was twelve.

Sherlock on the other hand concentrates on the important aspect of the situation and demands in a voice that makes it clear he suspects John is purposefully messing with him: “You didn't really mean that about taking off our clothes, did you? I am sure they will dry much faster if we keep them on.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes in the background, already slipping out of his dripping parka, and John tells himself very firmly that now is not the time to start the conversation they are going to have one day about Sherlock's body image issues. Instead he explains in his kindest possible voice: “You will either take your clothes off or I will do it for you because by the time they will be dry if you keep them on, you will have lost the last of your body heat and I am NOT losing you to hypothermia in front of a blazing fire, so strip!”

Sherlock shoots him a venomous glare but he starts to unbutton his coat and soon enough they are all huddling around the fire in their pants. Lestrade wears blue boxers, John notices idly, while Sherlock white boxer briefs might as well be see-through, wet as they are. It would be funny if the man wasn't so clearly uncomfortable and John's heart squeezes a little as he takes in the miserable hunch of Sherlock's shoulders. Right, time to move on to the even more awkward part of the evening.

He clears his throat and points at the old double bed in the corner which has a single woolen blanket folded on top of it. 

“Time to get into bed gentlemen, we really want to conserve our body heat now that we aren't dripping anymore.”

Sherlock shoots him a betrayed look but John steadfastly refuses to lower his eyes and he finally gives an annoyed “harrumph” and stalks towards the bed like an offended at. John can tell when Lestrade gives a mental shrug and decides that, after the day they have had, really, sleeping in a bed with a practically naked Sherlock Holmes is far from the weirdest thing that has ever happened to him and soon all three of them are squashed together into the tiny bed like so many sardines and engaged in the age old tradition of fighting over the blanket.

This time it is Lestrade who tries to be the voice of common sense. 

“I'm sorry mate, but I really think the only way we are all going to fit under this blanket is if we, well, spoon.” 

“Spoon?!”

“Yes, Sherlock, you know that position where everybody is lying on their side and - ”

“I know what spooning means! God, this is ridiculous!”

But he complies and soon they are nestled into each other like, well, three spoons of diminishing size John supposes. Sherlock and his gangly limbs are curled around Lestrade's back who in turn has John tucked against his chest. There is a little fidgeting as everybody tries to figure out what to do with their arms until Lestrade groans in exasperation and tugs Sherlock's arm over his middle, curling his own arm over John's belly and they are finally warm and all covered by the blanket. John hasn't slept three to a bed since he was five, when his cousin Amy had slept over and Harry and he had fought so long over who got to sleep with her that they finally all collapsed in an exhausted puppy pile. This feels slightly more weird because they are three grown men and all still slightly damp and John can feel Lestrade's chest hair against his back which is just weird. John supposes that in the morning he might actually care about the fact that he has far more of Lestrade's anatomy pressed up against himself than he is strictly comfortable with without Greg buying him dinner first, but right now all he can think is “safe, warm, (reasonably) dry” and with that he is asleep.

 

Greg wakes up the next morning with John tucked into his left armpit, face mashed into the mattress and snoring gently while on his right side Sherlock's head is resting on his chest, his dark curls tickling Greg's nose. He tries to figure out whether he should be embarrassed by this, or rather, by how comfortable this feels, but then decides not to give a toss. He has always enjoyed just sleeping with people and right now he is blissfully drowsy and comfortable, so he just closes his eyes and slips back into sleep.


End file.
